“One would imagine him to be used to it by now, for he has been the heir since birth. Unlike me, he has never had a period of blessed anonymity. Yet somehow it always takes him by surprise when ladies take an interest in him. They are wasting their time, sadly, and would be better advised to turn their attention elsewhere. Now there is one who is definitely a man with an eye for the ladies — over there, talking to my wife, the very handsome fellow with the diamond pin in his cravat.”
He was indeed very handsome, with a mane of golden hair, a patrician brow and a hint of permanent amusement about his lips. Bea liked him at once. Was he perhaps one of those on her list?
“I have not yet been introduced to him,” she said. “Who is he?”
“That is Grayling… Lord Grayling, that is.”
A lord! But not on Bertram’s list, which was curious.
“Is he married?”
The duke laughed, and turned to her with eyebrows raised. “Oho, is that a certain interest I detect? No, he is not married. Should you like to meet him?”
“I shall be very happy to make the acquaintance of all your guests,” Bea said demurely, but she could not help blushing a little. Lord Grayling was indeed very handsome, the sort of splendid figure of a man that any girl would dream of in a husband.
The duke laughed again, and led her across the room. “Grayling, here is someone who wishes to meet you. Miss Franklyn, may I present to you Lord Grayling of Melton Mowbray. Grayling, Miss Franklyn is from Newcastle. Excuse me… I must… um…”
He bowed, tucked the duchess’s arm in his and led her away, leaving Bea gazing in some awe at Lord Grayling. If she had been asked to describe her ideal specimen of manhood, the example before her would have come very close. He was imposingly tall, with broad shoulders that strained his coat to such an extent that she wondered how his valet had ever wrestled him into it. His legs were shapely too, and he dressed in a manner which was fashionable and at the same time not in the least ostentatious.
He executed an elegant bow. “Newcastle, eh? A fine city, I believe, although I have never been there. For what is it famous?” His tone was languid, not very interested in Newcastle or, very likely, Bea herself.
“Coal, sir. A vast deal of coal goes out from Newcastle to London and elsewhere. But I no longer live in Newcastle. My father’s estate is in the North Riding, which is famous for sheep, wool and extensive moorland. But tell me of Melton Mowbray. I have never heard of it, but I am sure it is famous for something.”
His eyes turned fully on her, a little surprised at so robust a response. “I imagine so, but whatever it is, I cannot tell you. My estate is five miles outside Melton, and I rarely go there.”
“For shame, sir! Are the inhabitants to be deprived of the sight of one of their most distinguished residents? What dreadful crime have they committed to inflict this dire punishment on their heads?”
His lips twitched. “I am sure they are as upright as the residents of any other English town, Miss Franklyn, but, as towns go, it is rather small and not well endowed with such facilities as banks and attorneys and shops. I tend to go to Leicester instead, and since I feel sure you are about to ask, it is famous for the manufacture of stockings.”
“Ah, stockings! How useful. It must be a fascinating place if it is wholly given over to the manufacture of stockings. I adore stockings and should very much like to visit a town filled with them.”
He chuckled. “I do believe there are one or two other enterprises carried on there, apart from the manufacture of stockings. But if we may speak of the county as a whole, then for those of my own class, it is not stockings but hunting which is the principal attraction. Leicestershire boasts the finest hunting country in England.”
“And you are so fortunate as to live there. How glad your friends must be!”
He laughed out loud at that. “Yes, indeed, I am excessively popular during the hunting season. How is it that you have never been in town, Miss Franklyn? I am certain I should have remembered you if we had ever met.”
“You are mistaken, sir, in supposing me a stranger to the Metropolis, but you are quite right — we have never met. I too am confident I should have remembered such an event.”
She had his full attention by this time. “I imagine that you have been constrained to attend only such wholesome places as Almack’s. Very dull stuff, Almack’s.”
“So it is, but I was also so fortunate as to attend the occasional card party with octogenarians, to drive through Hyde Park in a barouche and to visit the theatre, although only when works were performed of a nature suitable for demure maidens. I have been gay almost to dissipation, I do assure you.”
He laughed again, his eyes twinkling in an alarmingly attractive way. “What a pity I was not in charge of devising your entertainment, Miss Franklyn. I should have offered you a far more interesting time of it.”
“What would you suggest for my entertainment, Lord Grayling?”
“Have you ever attended a masquerade ball? They are the most astonishing fun, and one may be quite anonymous. And then there are places where cards are played more excitingly than with your octogenarians.”
“Ooh, that sounds most amusing! But are such places not… dangerous? I have heard that one may lose a fortune in the turn of a card or the throw of a die.”
“But that is what makes them so exciting,” he said, leaning close to whisper in her ear. “You would be quite safe with me, Miss Franklyn.”
Bea could feel his breath tickling her neck. She was conscious of a warmth that had nothing to do with the lingering heat of a summer afternoon or the crowded room. His closeness made her feel almost dizzy. Only an insistent tapping on her hand drew her out of her strange absorption in him.
“Miss Franklyn!”
“Bertram?” she said, turning to him in bewilderment. “Whatever is it?”
